


how are your lungs? (are they in pain?)

by OvalNephrite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, dw, hanahaki, life is too depressing to give stories sad endings, this is kind of sad but in a ~dramatic~ way, use your words boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 00:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OvalNephrite/pseuds/OvalNephrite
Summary: The flowers don't hurt, exactly. Sure, he can feel vines curl in his lungs when Peter smiles and it's a pain to force the petals out of his throat, but it could be worse - Peter could know about his feelings. Frankly, Stiles would rather sink through the floor and dissolve, so he presses each new flower between the pages of his journal and smiles.





	how are your lungs? (are they in pain?)

Stiles stares at his sink, both resigned and incredulous. Before, when things were normal and the worst thing a bite meant was rabies, that mixture would have seemed impossible on a fundamental level, even to him. Now, though? It was an everyday thing.

 

This, though.

 

This is new.

 

There is a petal staring back up at him, peeking out from the lid of the drain. There are traces of spittle from when he coughed it up moments before.

 

“What the fuck,” he whispers hoarsely. He doesn’t know what it means; maybe a magic thing? The druid the week before had given him a smarmy look, after all - but on second thought, the tickle in his throat had been bothering him for longer than that.

 

Stiles tears his eyes away from the petal only when the watch on his wrist buzzes insistently. He decides that whatever the fuck it was, it could wait until after his Chemistry test.

 

And it did, for the most part. He doesn’t cough up another petal, but the first one has left something bitter behind. Something weighted. (Looking back, maybe he already knew.)

 

 

After school, he goes to Deaton’s clinic. For once, the vet is actually busy doing normal work with normal animals, so he sits down in the waiting room and takes out his phone. There are a few messages from Peter, which makes him smile until he reads them.

 

 **[3:40PM] Peter:** Where are you?

 **[3:42PM] Peter:** They aren’t saying it out loud, but Scott clearly thinks I kidnapped you.

 

Stiles grimaces. Thoughts of facing Deaton and ways to deal with his bullshit had made the day’s pack meeting slip his mind. He was lucky that heartbeat skips didn’t translate into text.

 

 **[3:45PM] You:** traffic sucks

 **[3:45PM] You:** eta 15min

 **[3:46PM] You:** don’t u have an alibi for this kind of thing??

 **[3:48PM] Peter:** Yes, but I try to save them for special occasions.

 

Stiles laughs into the back of his hand as he reads out Peter’s reply. His throat tightens abruptly until he has to turn his hand and cough into it. When he pulls it away, he is staring at another petal, smaller than the last.

 

He didn’t notice the footsteps approaching him until they stopped. He looks up, but Deaton is staring at the palm of his hand. His face makes Stiles’ skin crawl. He looks.. alarmed.

 

“Well, doc? Is it magic herpes or what?” he forces out despite the panic crawling up his spine. “You think the school would accept a doctor’s note from a vet? Or do I have to photoshop one? Or fake actual herpes? Please say I don’t have to fake -”

 

Deaton, bless him, snaps out of his little daydream and turns on his heel, completely disregarding Stiles’ rambling. It was comforting to get a normal reaction again, but also fuck him.

 

Stiles leaves the clinic with a pathetically small leather book (“Tome,” Deaton insisted, but not even Stiles was that much of a nerd) dropped unceremoniously into his arms. He is dying to read it, but he has a meeting to get to and an excuse to maintain, so he sets it in his glove compartment and pulls back onto the main road.

 

 

_**花吐き病 ∙ hanahaki byou** : Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws up and coughs of flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals. It can be cured without side effects only when the feelings are returned . _

Stiles stares at the meager information offered for a long time.

 

There is a sticky note - Deaton’s personal number, apparently, and an offer for surgery if (when) it came to that. The warning is there, too; unspoken, unwritten, and somehow undeniable.

 

His phone dings and he glances at the notification on his lockscreen. Peter is on his way back with takeout. Stiles had given him the cash for it to make up for being late.

 

The book is closed and set on his highest shelf. He pops a cough drop into his mouth and starts picking out movies.

 

 

When he steps outside, the sun is hot and insistent. He had finished his second exam only a few minutes ago, but he wasn’t worried. It was smart to have brought tissues, though. He only coughed up two petals.

 

Outside, Peter is waiting for him with an obnoxious smirk that matches his equally obnoxious car. He valiantly attempts to pretend that he doesn’t notice the stares he gets when he walks right up to the passenger side and slides in.

 

“Hey,” Peter says as the car starts moving.

 

“Hey yourself,” Stiles shoots back easily. He tries to bring one knee up to the dash and gets swatted immediately. “Ow, what the fuck! That’s it, we’re getting chili fries.”

 

Peter’s face scrunches up in a way that makes Stiles’ lungs flutter. “Dairy Queen,” he proposed. Stiles pretends to think about it just long enough for the wolf to get irritated, then waves a hand to signal his approval of the compromise.

 

The rest of the drive is filled with Stiles ranting about how no, Mr. Harris, you actually didn’t teach us that, and yes, it _was_ on the final, and how he had to teach it to himself in a all-nighter not centered around digging up beef on a pretentious satyr or something equally stupid for once.

 

At one point he catches himself explaining the whole equation and slows down with a sheepish grin. Peter takes the chance to ask a question about one of the factors, his eyes never straying from the road, and Stiles jumps at the chance with a smile he is sure looks like it will break his face in half.

 

 

The coughing gets worse.

 

Stiles learns to stop the petals from passing through his lips, learns to clench his teeth and cage them in. He chews them up and swallows them back down. He likes to think the more he practices, the less obvious he becomes.

 

It’s after the rest of the pack has left the loft, leaving only Stiles and Peter to do extra research until the sun comes up, when Peter leaves the room and comes back with a cup of tea.

 

“That cough of yours worries me. If you refuse to help it with rest, at least try this,” he says airily in response to Stiles’ baffled look. They go back to working. The tea is probably the only thing that washes back the waves of petals trying to force their way up his throat.

 

When Peter gets a text from Derek telling him that he has a sample for him to check out, Stiles stays behind and fills the silence with a wave of petals landing in the toilet.

 

 

Lydia is the first to find out, of course. Stiles isn’t surprised; the wolves are so confident in their enhanced senses that they ignore the subtleties humans need to pay attention to. He found a scent masking charm weeks ago.

 

She finds him kneeling over a toilet after their last exam, petals stuck to his lips with saliva and mucus. Scott would have panicked. Derek would have lashed out. Lydia does neither of these things. She just helps him to the sink and carefully dabs away the evidence with a wet paper towel. Her eyes are hard, but not with disappointment - just a steadfast determination to take care of her own.

 

Later, Stiles carefully pulls Deaton’s book from the top shelf in his bedroom and shows it to her. She brushes the dust off the cover pointedly and reads every single line.

 

When she finishes, she looks up at him and says, “You’re an idiot.”

 

Her voice sounds like funeral bells. Stiles manages a wry smile.

 

 

“You -” Peter announces firmly, “- should see a doctor.” They are sitting together beneath the trees, not far from the Hale house but not too close either. Derek is a dozen yards away, having Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and Scott twist this way and that to test their reflexes in the case of something or another.

 

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it too,” Stiles says. He leans back and stares up. The speckles of sunlight peeking through the canopy remind him of stars. “I went and got some advice on it.”

 

It’s a game they play, where Peter asks a question and Stiles dances around it, answering in half-truths and insignificant details that do nothing to his heartbeat. Sometimes he catches a flash of something in Peter’s eyes. He isn’t quite sure what it is yet - Worry? Frustration?

 

Whatever it is, it’s better than telling him the full truth. Peter didn’t need to know another person will die because of him.

 

(But was it really because of him, when Stiles kept each and every petal?)

 

 

 

Lydia reads and rereads, then passes it to him so he can do the same, but there is nothing in the book about the disease’s origins or ways to slow its progression. If anything, the few pathetic documented cases show that the stronger the feelings, the faster the seeds in his lungs will grow.

 

They look through the majority of the book, which has sketches of different petals most commonly found in the afflicted. His are Daffodils - memory, forgiveness, pride, and creativity.

 

Lydia makes a joke about the myth they come from - the one they both know by heart because they read it the first time together, back in middle school. Narcissus: the man who loved himself so much that he stared into his reflection until he wasted away.

 

Stiles hasn’t told her who it is yet, but there is only one person in the pack that fits that description, and they both know it. So Stiles laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs until he starts coughing up more daffodil petals and when they start to strangle his laughter into wheezing, he holds his head in his hands and cries.

 

 

The day Stiles coughs up his first full flower, Peter sets his hand on the back of his neck during a meeting. The touch is solid and intimate - blatant scent-marking that has Stiles preening inside.

 

Lydia glares holes in anyone who gives the exchange an odd look and maybe that’s what gives him the courage to reach up and press a hand beneath Peter’s jaw, his thumb tentatively pressing against his cheek.

 

The softness in Peter’s eyes makes Stiles’ chest warm like molten gold. For a second, he thinks maybe -

 

His flowers grow thorns and he clenches his teeth together hard.

 

It’s Jackson who calls Peter away to ask him about the right form for shifting with something already broken. Stiles has seen him do it before, but he already knows that Lydia told him without remembering that. He flashes Lydia a quick smile before his retreat, because he isn’t mad. If it were anyone else, he probably would’ve told Peter right away.

 

If it were anyone else.

 

 

Stiles likes the daffodils. He knows Jackson crushes the ones he forgets to pocket and Lydia is biting her tongue about the surgery every time he gulps too harshly. He knows how they feel, but that doesn’t keep him from feeling differently.

 

He starts to think of them as evidence - of the memories they bloomed for, of his feelings, shouting just as loud and obnoxious as he would if he had the balls. He starts a journal on the second week of summer vacation somewhere between college applications and presses a new blossom onto every page. Underneath, he writes why it found the strength to leave his lungs.

 

Sometimes he thinks about Peter finding it, after it’s all over and done with (there is only one way it can end). He tries not to dwell on it.

 

 

Stiles starts planning for the future. Not like before, with college and careers, but for when he’s gone. The coughing makes his whole body shake now.

 

He starts leaving out his dinner recipes for his dad. He writes out reminders about what not to eat on sticky notes, things that his dad has heard a million times already. But this time it isn’t for his dad - He just hopes Peter is observant enough to see them, but not observant enough to ask questions. It’s a silly wish.

 

One day, Stiles notices they’re running low on wheat bread. He adds it to the grocery list and crosses out some of his dad’s suggestions, but later, he realizes there isn’t a need. When Peter comes over, he wordlessly sets a loaf on the counter before they go up to his room.

 

His relief must be too obvious (or maybe the way he excuses himself to the bathroom right away, hacking and wheezing echoing through the thin walls), because later Peter turns to him with such honest worry that it clears his clogged lungs for a solid breath.

 

“Something is wrong, Stiles. What are you hiding?”

 

(If this were a happy story, Stiles assures himself, this would be a great time to confess.

 

(This is not a happy story, Stiles assures himself.))

 

Stiles looks away from the movie and meets Peter’s eyes. He smiles easily as he waves a hand and says he’ll be fine.

 

Peter seems conflicted, because it _should_ be a lie, but his heartbeat doesn’t stutter, so.. it can’t be. Stiles knew it wouldn’t, because it wasn’t a lie. He _will_ be fine, as long as he’s able to keep talking and laughing with Peter, to keep _loving_ Peter, even if it kills him.

 

 

Years ago, a man with wild eyes and nothing to lose said to him, “You must be Stiles.”

 

Now, a man with gentle eyes and everything to gain says to him, “I’ll clean up. Get some rest before we head out.”

 

 

Even with the optimism he had before a crack on the staircase was just a creak on the staircase and an animal looking at him too long didn’t mean anything, Stiles would’ve known that keeping it a secret all the way through was never going to work. Still, he stubbornly held onto that plan.

 

The alternative was thinking of Peter’s surprise, disgust, self-loathing, thinking it was his fault, but it _wasn’t his fault-_

 

He can’t place when the petals first came out speckled with blood, staining the velvety white and corrupting it. (There was a metaphor in there, somewhere. He was more of a Math guy, personally.) When Lydia notices, though, she makes it known. By that, he means that she grabs Stiles by the hair and wrenches him away from the toilet seat.

 

“You have to tell him,” she says, firm and desperate. There is something in her eyes that Stiles rarely sees. It’s not quite helplessness, but it’s close. Still, he shakes his head.

 

“Why not?” she cries, grabbing him by the shoulders. Her face is a little blurry, but that’s probably because of the manhandling.

 

“He’ll either be disgusted or pretend to feel the same, and I’m pretty sure both would kill me on the spot. He can’t change what he feels, Lyd. I’m not the kind of asshole to leave him with that kind of guilt - He has enough already,” he adds, looking over her shoulder instead of her eyes.

 

Lydia’s shoulders sag and she suddenly looks a lot more tired than before. Older.

 

Stiles can’t stand to see that, so he gets up and mumbles an apology on his way to the bathroom door. He doesn’t look back, but by the time he gets to the door, Lydia is there to drive him home. She insists, saying that the flowers are cutting off his oxygen, that it would be dangerous for him to drive. He doesn’t have enough energy to refuse- hell, he barely has enough to text Peter that he wouldn’t be hitching a ride today. The three dots signifying a reply on the way is enough to send him hacking over the dashboard. Lydia says nothing.

 

 

In hindsight, Stiles should’ve known Lydia would never just give up like that. Still, he didn’t expect to wake up in the middle of the night to the low rumble of a familiar growl.

 

Flowers bloom with every breath, but Stiles still sits up and readies a dry look. “Really? 2AM? You’re a little late for witching hour, if -” he starts. The words die in his throat when he meets eyes made of ice. Stiles gulps.

 

The pieces click together when his eyes adjust to the dark and he sees more than Peter’s silhouette. Peter is holding a book- _the_ book. It is open to one of the fuller pages, the words covered by a single, blood-soaked daffodil. He must’ve smelled the blood.

 

Stiles hadn’t touched the book in days, and he certainly hadn’t let any of the flowers he keeps stay bloodied. He thinks back to the look in Lydia’s eyes and his shoulders sag with defeat.

 

“Look, I-”

 

“Who?” Peter cuts him off. He is suddenly a lot closer, mouth full of fangs. His hands are trembling when he sets them on Stiles’ arms, but they’re still so, so gentle. Stiles chokes back a blossom that blooms insistently. “Who did this to you? Why- Why didn’t you tell me?” he continues. His voice falters for a moment. “Did you think you couldn’t trust me?”

 

“No!” Stiles shouts as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He was lucky his dad was at the station, because that would have woken him up twice over. “No, Peter, no, that’s not-”

 

“Then why? Why didn’t you-”

 

“Because you shouldn’t have to go through this again!” Stiles shuts his eyes and bows his head. The words spill out, petals tangling with his tongue. “Because it’s not your fault, and you didn’t do anything, but I know you’d think it was, even if you don’t say it, because you always do! You get that stupid fucking smirk and make some smartass remark and it makes me want to wring your neck because I can’t stand to see you blame yourself. I thought-” His cough turns into a gurgle. He swallows roughly. “I didn’t want to see that every fucking day until this was over, alright? I just wanted things to be like they did before my stupid fucking feelings turned into these shitty flowers.”

 

Peter stares at him, his expression unreadable. It makes Stiles’ gut churn, the way he kneels on the bed in front of him. They are close in height, but the wolf somehow manages to fill the whole room. It makes him feel safe.

 

“Stiles,” Peter murmurs. His voice is deceptively calm, urging. “You can tell me who it is. You haven’t told them, have you? It isn’t like you to not exhaust every possibility.”

 

Despite his words, there is an anger simmering in the glow of his eyes. Claws prick Stiles’ forearms. He looks like he wants to drag whoever it was out of bed and up to the door by their hair. Stiles snorts into the heel of his palm and shakes his head.

 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he wheezes and stands up. Peter lets him go, looking hilariously confused. He only gives him a glance - any longer risked him losing the pair he’d grown.

 

The little journal is right where he left it a few hours ago. Stiles still remembers the teasing from Erica about his ‘type’ that made him cough up his latest crumpled blossom. With that memory to pacify him, he turns on his heel and shoves the journal into Peter’s hands.

 

“Stiles-”

 

“Just read it, creeperwolf.” He resists the urge to look up until he hears the journal being opened and the sharp intake of breath that follows.

 

Peter handles the journal like it is made of glass, brushing his fingers against each and every petal and flower he comes across. He reads every line of commentary, every story they are paired with. He puts every puzzle piece in place and his eyes looks so ridiculously fond that Stiles’ heart aches and his throat burns.

 

But when Peter reaches the last page and finally looks up, there is no anger or disgust like Stiles had been bracing for. Just a deep, intense.. _something_ that shakes Stiles to his core. He takes a step forward and Stiles takes a step back. For every advance, Stiles retreats until his hip knocks against his desk.

 

He finally looks up to meet Peter’s eyes again. His breath hitches when warm hands come up to cradle his jaw. He barely has time to recover before he is pulled into a bruising kiss.

 

The first thing Stiles thinks when his brain reboots was that Peter’s lips are surprisingly soft. Soon that is the only clear thought in his head, and through the fog he tentatively threads his fingers through Peter’s hair and pulls him closer.

 

The wolf comes without a fight- In fact, his enthusiasm is enough to make Stiles gasp, which Peter takes as a chance to slip his tongue through his lips. Stiles will deny the squeak forced out of him until he dies; his own ministrations are sloppy and inexperienced, but Peter is patient - he cups the back of Stiles’ neck and guides him, teaches him, until his knees are weak.

 

It’s at this point that he realizes Peter has been mumbling things against his lips, soft scoldings that slowly turn into sweet nothings. They make Stiles withdraw, pull away to catch his breath. He doesn’t want pity.

 

Peter glares at him like he can read his mind. “Come now, Stiles, connect the dots,” he sighs, achingly fond. “Your intelligence is one of the things I love most about you.”

 

The tension shatters and the shards form in his eyes and roll down his cheeks as tears. He cries and Peter chuckles against his neck, trailing kisses up to his jaw. Soon they’re both laughing until they’re dizzy with it.

 

“I love you,” Stiles gasps. It’s a weight off of his lungs and heart. “I fucking love you.”

 

“I love you, too,” Peter replies, sincere and warm, and pulls Stiles closer.

 

 

Later, Peter and Stiles walk into the loft hand in hand. Stiles uses his other to give Lydia the middle finger. She dutifully replies, “You’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAA I haven't made a fic in years and this is my first for TW, so please be gentle, but tell me what you think qvq
> 
> I didn't come into this fandom thinking I would make a fic, to be honest, but the fact that there are like 90k fics for this show and there are like six Hanahaki fics is shameful and needed to be fixed immediately.
> 
> Come hang out! I'm OvalNephrite on tumblr, instagram and twitter <3


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